


The Sacrifices We Make

by SephrinaRose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon Rewrite, Character Death, Draco and Harry’s Complicated Relationship, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Good Draco Malfoy, Heavy Angst, Horcruxes, Hurt Draco Malfoy, No Romance, POV Harry Potter, Rubeus Hagrid's Hut, Sacrifice, Second War with Voldemort, Self-Sacrifice, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27148325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SephrinaRose/pseuds/SephrinaRose
Summary: Harry knew that love was the purest form of magic and the purest form of sacrifice.He just wished that he had known that Draco Malfoy was capable of it.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 21
Kudos: 209





	The Sacrifices We Make

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all,
> 
> Welcome to this story.
> 
> Enjoy!

The sacrifices of a son for his mother, and a son with none.

* * *

Harry knew he was going to die.

Covering himself in his cloak, walking into the halls that were quiet with sacrifice and death, the air acidic with the lingering power of dark curses, cloying on the back of his tongue.

He knew what he had to do, and he couldn’t let anyone stop him. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t say goodbye. They would find out, eventually. Harry knew how it felt to not be able to say goodbye, but he hoped they wouldn’t hate him for taking away their chance.

He knew he would lose his resolve if Hermione started crying, or watch that horrible dead look take over Ron’s eyes. He couldn’t see them.

He walked past the destruction, the death permeating his home. He felt betrayed by those he had viewed as his father figures. They all knew he was to die, had known for years. They put him through all of this because he was a sacrifice they could afford. That they needed to die so they could win.

He couldn’t waste time on anger. The temporary armistice would end soon, and Harry had be dead on the forrest floor before the hour was up. He needed to be if they were to have a chance to win this war.

Harry fingered at the empty vial in his pocket, splattered with Snape’s blood and tears.

He willed himself to not feel the betrayal, nor the grief. Besides, they were both dead now. Harry would join them soon.

“Harry?” He heard, and spun to the quiet voice of Neville Longbottom. In his wallowing, he hadn’t noticed the blonde boy behind a section of partially collapsed wall. Neville was collapsed on the floor, leaning back against what remained of the wall. He held the sorting hat and his wand in either of his hands, but both laid weakly on the floor.

“How did you see me?” Harry asked, too stunned to respond any other way.

“You knocked over the rock over there.” Neville said, pointing a dirty and bloody hand to a rock that laid behind Harry, still rocking a little on his sharp edge. He must have knocked it off the pile of rocks and dust with his cloak.

“Oh.” Was all he managed. He felt like all his insides had been scooped out and he was nothing but hollow.

“Are you going?” Neville asked, still unmoving from the ground where he rested. His hand had fallen to rest heavily on his lap. He looked half dead.

Harry nodded, before remembering Neville still couldn’t see him. Harry knelt down behind the half destroyed wall of stone and lifted the cloak to show his face.

“I have to.” He said, and Neville just nodded. He looked away from Harry’s face, and a tear dripped down from his eye. It created a path through the dirt on his face as it rolled down his cheek.

“I’m sorry, Harry.” Was all he said, and Harry nodded, biting his lip and swallowing against the lump in his throat. Neville might not understand all the details, but he understood nonetheless. Harry needed to die for them.

“You need to kill the snake, Neville.” He whispered, remembering himself through the hollowness. Remembering that despite the betrayal, he still had a lot to lose in this war. He wanted them all to live through this. They had to.

Neville met his eyes again.

“What? Me, Harry?” He asked, voice trembling, that characteristic nervousness suddenly piercing though this weathered exterior. “Why me? I couldn’t-”

Harry leant forward, and pressed a hand against Neville’s chest. Over his heart. It silenced Neville.

“You are a Gryffindor, Neville Longbottom. Remember that.” It was a double meaning, one he hoped Neville would understand. The hat would help him, if he remembered who he was. Harry couldn’t tell him anymore because if any legilimens got into his head, they’d have no chance.

“I-“ Neville didn’t appear to know what to say. Harry leant back, easing himself to his feet and lifting the cloak back off his shoulders. Neville just watched with a broken look on his face. The hand he lifted automatically to stop him, dropped lifelessly to his lap.

“Goodbye, Neville. Be brave.” Harry whispered, voice thick with tears, and pulled the cloak back over his face.

He left quickly, before he could watch Neville’s eyes lose focus on his face as he disappeared into invisibility. He pushed one foot in front of the other, trying to forget the fiercely loyal friend that Neville had become.

He couldn’t afford to waste any more time on emotions or goodbyes.

He kept his cloak close to his body as he walked, ensuring nobody else would notice him. He was making good headway, focusing on making his steps quiet instead of getting lost in his head again.

But then beautiful red hair caught his attention in the corner of his eyes, and he couldn’t help but stumble to an abrupt stop, legs shaking and head suddenly so very heavy.

Ginny.

Her bright hair was a beacon in the despair that surrounded him...and he almost broke. She was sitting quietly next to a small girl, holding her hand and whispering to her. It seemed almost cruel to see her now, her bright red hair consuming all his attention as he struggled to grasp at the motivation to walk to his death. He tried to take another step, but his steps faltered, legs unable to move. He wanted to have her look at him. To feel those eyes on him, to feel the love in her gaze.

But, they would not have a future together. Not anymore. During the lonely nights in the forest, Harry often dreamed about red headed children with green eyes. He wished he’d known sooner that he was always going to be the sacrifice that won this war. He would have, perhaps, kept his distance. Tried to ease her into losing him.

Now he had less than thirty minutes to come to terms with it himself and muster the courage to actually do it.

Ginny’s voice brought him out of his head, just like it always did. He watched her for a moment longer, heart longing. He hoped that Ginny would learn to love another, because she deserved so much more to mourn for him for the rest of her life.

He hoped she knew that he loved her. It was too late to tell her now.

He forced himself to take a step, and then another. He focused on each step, on the firmness of the dust covered stone underneath his runners. One after the other. He didn’t look around, couldn’t afford to absorb any more lest he waste time and let this all be for nothing.

He stayed like that, head down and feet marching onwards until it became monotonous. He focused on that singular action until he could see and feel nothing else.

But when his toe hit something soft, he stopped, almost tripped in the sudden halt of his body. His legs locked, his breath locked halfway up his throat.

Colin Creevey.

Harry stopped, and felt everything at once. It was so quiet all around him, like there wasn’t a war in these walls. He realised he was now in a different hall, near the entrance to the grounds on the side of the castle. He was far away from Ginny and the girl, now.

Colin’s body was right in the middle of the hall, just collapsed like the rocks around him. His eyes were closed, but it was no consolation.

Harry reminded himself to breathe.

Colin looked tiny in death, and it made sense, because he was barely sixteen. Harry tried to shut down the part of him that started to ache fiercely, shoving the hurt back down his throat into the pit of his stomach.

He swallowed, and tried not to throw up.

Colin was only sixteen, but then again, Harry was eighteen; and he was about to die just the same way. A killing curse to the chest, and death was instant.

It didn’t allow enough time to even scream.

This war was no place for them, but they were taken by it just the same. The emotion was back, crawling up his throat and making his tears prick uncomfortably. He took another moment to calm himself, closing his eyes, taking a few deep breaths as he remembered Colin.

And once that moment was over, he stepped over the poor boy’s body and moved onwards.

It didn’t take long for him to reach the end of the hallway and step out into the dawn.

The air was cool outside, the faintest tinge of frost in the air as the coolness of night fell away to the rising sun. The coolness was felt even under the cloak and his clothes, making a shiver run down his spine. The sun was just barely lightening the sky over the hill, the sky a dull mauve. Harry didn’t hesitate, and moved down the grassed hill that lead to the forbidden forrest. His sneakers slipped a little down the hill, the wet grass making his footing uneven.

He looked up at the sky as he went, avoiding looking into the dark forrest where he would die. It looked like the day ahead would have beautiful weather, warm enough to enjoy the outdoors. He wondered if any of his friends would have time to enjoy it, to breathe in the fresh air and know they were free.

He hoped beyond all else that his sacrifice would ensure their victory.

After all, the horcruxes had to be destroyed for them to win. It was a horrible truth, he now realised; but despite its depravity, it was still true. And Harry was a Horcrux.

He was a Horcrux. And accidental one, but one nonetheless. A piece of Voldemort’s soul resided in him, and that piece needed to die. Harry was just the host that had to die with it. It wasn’t like his death had anything to do with him, or his worth.

He felt like a worthless pawn. He was the collateral damage that must be given up. He was the price to pay, one which they were happy to accept.

Harry shoved down the betrayal again until it barely stung.

Once again, Voldemort had found a way to ruin his life. Or, realistically, Harry’s life was doomed to end at his hands from the beginning. He didn’t find another way to hurt him, simply finalising the process he already started. Part of himself had already been taken when he was just a baby, and he just had a few extra years to live his life before Voldemort took the rest.

At least Voldemort wouldn’t realise what he’d done until it was too late. Because by killing Harry, he was also dooming himself.

Harry hoped that Voldemort would drop dead when he killed him. But he knew it wasn’t true, for the snake still lived. Only he and the snake were left, and he knew if given the opportunity; Neville would do his part.

Harry just had to do his.

After they both died, Voldemort would be weak. He hoped Mcgonagall or somebody else would have the strength to finish it. He hoped beyond all hope that this war would end today with them free. It had to.

He didn’t want to think about what would happen if it didn’t. That was why he had to do this, for them to have a fighting chance.

He’d always been prepared to sacrifice himself for this war, but a small part of him thought he’d had a future outside of Voldemort’s reach. That he could live without Voldemort breathing down his neck. He knew now that the part of him that believed so, was naive.

So naive.

He was never going to escape Voldemort.

Because Harry was a Horcrux.

Out the corner of his eye, Hagrid’s hut caught his attention away from his spiralling thoughts; sitting quietly on the edge of the forrest. He didn’t notice when his direction down the hill had shifted to bring him closer to the building. He stopped where he stood, about twenty metres away from the the hut, cloak settling around his feet on the dewey morning grass.

He tried not to look at the forrest that stretched before him ominously, dark and beckoning. It was like the forrest knew it would claim another victim before the sun rose.

He focused on the hut before he could start to panic.

It looked the same as always, untouched by all the death around it. He focused on it, focused on the good energy coming from the place where he’d spent much of his childhood. He remembered his first visit, when he was so small and Hagrid looked so huge. He remembered the rock cakes and slugs. He remembered Ron’s childish laughter and Hermione’s scolding.

He wondered what happened to those carefree kids.

Ron and Hermione were all grown up. They were young adults now, but not in the way Harry imagined them growing up together. They were weighed down by his war, the joy and laughter they shared in their youth all discarded to focus on survival.

They lived and breathed this war until it sucked everything else out of their lives.

He remained still for another moment, reminiscing about those carefree adventures with his best friends. He was glad he could still remember those kids, the ones they used to be, and he would carry their memory until he could remember no more.

The quietness of the moment was destroyed by the distinct sound of a leaf being crunched under a foot. Harry whipped around, eyes searching as his hand reached for his wand, and felt his breath catch in his throat.

Draco Malfoy was stood on the edge of Hagrid’s garden, forest at his back; watching the hut.

He looked just as he did only a hour or so before, in his all black suit covered with dust and singed with ash, when they saved him from a death eater. Well, saved was a loose word for what happened. Harry stopped the death eater from attacking Malfoy, and Ron punched Malfoy in the face. Harry stared closer at Malfoy before him, and realised he could see the bruise darkening on Malfoy’s angular cheekbone.

Harry just stood there, still as though he was stupefied, as he watched Malfoy shift unsurely on his feet, looking around as though he was expecting something. Malfoy’s wand burned in his pocket, like it was sensing its master.

And suddenly Harry was so angry. So angry that Draco bloody Malfoy was the last person he would see. Angry that he had to die today while people like Malfoy lived. And then he was just angry at himself for getting angry.

Malfoy was evidently looking for something, but obviously wasn’t expecting to get a knock over the head.

Harry powered down the hill to hit him over the head in his fit of anger, as was a normal thing between them. Violence was really the only appropriate way to respond to Malfoy. Malfoy collapsed to the side at the hit, yelling out in surprise and hurt just as Harry threw the cloak over his head. Malfoy stared up at him as the cloak dropped to the ground, sprawled in the dirt, shock evident on his pale features and wide eyes.

“Potter?” The blonde git yelped as he came into view, the older boy scrambling backwards on his elbows and feet as Harry kneeled over him.

Malfoy pushed at his chest weakly when Harry’s weight landed on the elder’s abdomen, pinning Malfoy to the ground. When it was clear he wasn’t going to get away, Malfoy turned and started throwing punches at Harry. Harry was quicker, and slapped him across the face right where his bruise was. They fought and punched and scratched like children, but Harry couldn’t feel anything but anger.

He punched Malfoy in the stomach and the other boy’s breath left him in a choking gasp, head thrown back against the soil beneath them. Malfoy stilled, taking a moment to breathe and he gasped in oxygen. Harry hoped the gits hair turned brown from the dirt.

“Screw you, Malfoy” he hissed, and it seemed to spark Malfoy’s temper again, for he took the chance to punch Harry across the face with surprising strength. Harry’s weight shifted from the hit as he raised a hand to cradle his face, giving Malfoy the opportunity to scramble out from under him to get to his feet.

Harry growled as Malfoy heaved himself to his feet and started running away. Harry reached for his ankle from where he knelt, trying to bring Malfoy down again, but missed. Malfoy darted across the garden, quick as a ferret, stumbling over half-dead plants and barely glancing back at Harry. He darted up the stone steps of the hut as Harry followed closely with red-tinged vision, and yanked the door open hard. Harry raced after him, enraged that Malfoy was going to destroy this once last peaceful place.

Malfoy managed to open the heavy wooden door and duck inside just as Harry reached the door. Malfoy scrambled into the living room, turning to face Harry was he walked backwards. He knocked over the chair next to the table as he went, backing away hastily, breathing heavily, his hands raised in a pitiful defence as Harry advanced on him. The floor boards creaked under their sudden and shifting weight, and within no time at all, Malfoy’s back hit the wall with a dull thud.

Harry whipped out his wand, and pointed it at Malfoy.

The other boy stopped moving immediately, breathing catching audibly in his throat as he pressed his back against the wall.

Silence suddenly fell, as they both stopped moving, nothing but the sound of their harsh breathing filling the space. The door shut heavily behind them as the moment settled, making the space darker than Harry would have liked. Malfoy’s hair was loose around his face, drawing his attention now as it glowed bright blonde in the dimness of the room.

Harry waited for the usual cowardly pleads and threats, because it was what Malfoy did best. The boy was a bully and a coward all rolled into one. He didn’t have much else.

The memory of Malfoy kneeling in front of him and lying to Bellatrix’s face crept into the forefront of Harry’s mind, but he shoved it away.

Harry waited, watching carefully as all Malfoy did was breathe and stare, but not beg. He didn’t beg. He didn’t even open his mouth, instead simply staring him down, grey eyes meeting Harry’s and not looking away. He breathed heavily, chest heaving with the desperate grasp for oxygen, but otherwise did not move.

It stumped Harry for a moment, tilting his head a little in his confusion. Their interactions had only ever consisted of threats, sarcasm, or violence. Harry and Malfoy had never stood in a room together and only shared silence.

Harry didn’t really know what to do, how to respond when Malfoy went off script.

“Just do it you giant git.” Malfoy snapped suddenly, harsh in the quiet that settled, eyes reflecting the light outside the broken window over Harry’s shoulder. They were bright with anger, pure and unadulterated rage. The sudden anger made Harry flinch, his wand hand dropping slightly before he brought up it back up again in automatic retaliation when faced with an angry Draco Malfoy.

This he knew how to respond to. This he understood.

But, the anger inside him was gone. The moment to breathe and simply stare at the pureblood git had allowed it to dissipate. The bright force that made him push Malfoy and punch him and chase him was gone. He realised he couldn’t muster up a curse or a hex even if he wanted to, because the emotion that had taken hold had left as quickly as it came.

He wondered idly if that anger was really about Malfoy, or whether the blonde was a merely convenient scrape-goat that stood in his way. Whether he was somebody to take it out on, because violence and anger came too easily when faced with Malfoy. Harry abruptly scoffed at himself, as he realised what they were doing. He was pointing a wand at Malfoy because the blonde was just standing still in a garden. 

Malfoy always brought out the worst in Harry, whether by accident or design.

“I laughed when Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger got petrified.” Malfoy hissed, voice cruel and mean all of a sudden, The tone was familiar from Malfoy, and Harry immediately focused on it, in a sense of self preservation. He prepared for Malfoy to strike in some way. “I hurt Katie Bell. I have bullied you for seven years. Do it.”

Harry felt the anger rise up again, slowly like thick tar, coating the inside of his lungs and the back of his throat. All those years of hurt and isolation came to the forefront of his mind; the bullying, the threats, the fear. Malfoy was a poisonous bully and a death eater, and all round a horrible person. He deserved pain and suffering, had caused so much of it that it was only fair to pay it back.

The curse was on the tip of Harry’s tongue, the magic welling up in his core in response; but then he looked Malfoy in the eyes.

And he didn’t recognise what he saw there.

Just seconds ago Malfoy’s eyes were sharp, like ice and fire. Filled with anger and disgust and pride. Harry had never seen them any different, not in the last seven years of hating him.

They looked different though now, strange enough to catch his attention away from the curse brewing in his chest, feeding on the tar in his throat. The look on Malfoy’s face and in his eyes was something he’d never seen, something he couldn’t put into words. He wasn’t looking down his nose at Harry like he usually did, eyes sharp and cruel. Instead, he was facing Harry straight on, shoulders squared but not arrogant, his eyes soft pools of mercury, filled with emotion Harry had never seen there.

Harry couldn’t identify what he saw in those eyes, and it was enough to make him hesitate.

Malfoy noticed the hesitation, and he leant off the wall. The look in his eyes quickly disappeared, like a door shutting Harry out, and were replaced with hard, icy grey. His posture became aggressive and proud; projecting warning signals, with his fists held at his sides as he leant forward and his shoulders shifted back. Overall, it made him look bigger and more threatening.

It was familiar. Harry felt his hackles raise in response, his hand tightening on his wand.

“Come on you idiot half-blood. Kill me!” Malfoy hissed, and threw himself at Harry.

Harry threw his wand away, worried the git would grab it and use it on him. Malfoy always fought dirty, and he didn’t want to be on the pointy end of his own wand. They tussled on the floor, exchanging punches and scratches like muggle children. Malfoy managed to roll on top of him, before Harry grabbed his hair and yanked it, forcing the older boy off him. He climbed over the other, digging his knees cruelly into Malfoy’s abdomen and chest, using his weight to hold him down. Malfoy was tall in the elegant way all the Malfoy’s were, but he was thin under Harry. Thinner than Harry remembered from before the war. Harry idly realised that whilst he only got stronger living rough and fighting hard in the war, Malfoy had got thinner and weaker.

Perhaps death eaters weren’t fed well by their benevolent ‘dark lord’.

Harry scoffed at the thought whilst Malfoy hissed and hurled expletives at Harry from underneath him, bucking his body wildly to try and get Harry off him again. Malfoy hailed down punches on Harry wherever he could reach, and the punches hurt, but Harry remembered them hurting more as children. Harry did not make the same mistake as in the garden, and held firm even when Malfoy resorted to scratching his nails down Harry’s face, knocking his glasses to the floor. His face throbbed, and he couldn’t see Malfoy as clearly, but he didn’t ease off or lean away.

When nothing Malfoy did got Harry off him, Malfoy started to fight like a wild animal; bucking without any direction whilst his threats and curses increased in pitch. Harry held firm.

“I tried to kill Dumbledore! I let Snape take the fall! I’m a horrible person, Potter. You’ve always wanted me dead, so do it!” He cried, and grabbed Harry by the shoulders, trying to shove him off for the eighth time.

Harry was fed up with this song and dance.

“Why don’t you just jump off the bridge if you want to die, Malfoy?” He hissed as he pushed Malfoy’s hands away from his shoulders, pinning them to the floor. It brought their faces closer than he would have liked, but at least it stopped the annoying punches and scratches.

“You’ve always hated me, Potter. I’m a self-righteous, racist prick. You know it. Everyone knows it. Just bloody do it!” Malfoy’s spat in his face, but Harry could see he was panicking. The expletives didn’t stop, and Harry abruptly realised Malfoy was using anger as a front.

He didn’t want these realisations. He wanted this be easy. He knew how to fight with Malfoy, but that was all. He didn’t know how to understand him, he had given up on trying when they were eleven.

But this close, it wasn’t hard to see how human Malfoy was. The normally steel grey eyes were now open, and Harry realised that look he’d seen in his eyes before it was hidden behind anger and pride was fear and hurt.

Malfoy was scared.

It reminded Harry of that day in the prefect bathroom, how broken Malfoy had looked. How Harry had hurt him, badly.

Suddenly Harry understood him more than he ever wanted to. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to. Because Harry didn’t want to understand him, or think of him as anything other than his school bully. Harry didn’t want to think that Malfoy was just like him.

Scared and hurt.

“Why do you want to die, Malfoy?” He asked, and it seemed like the words snapped something within Malfoy. The blonde stopped struggling, stopped shouting, and just simply turned his head to the side. He laid there, limp and small under Harry. All the fight had left him, and the sudden change had Harry beyond confused.

“Why couldn’t you have done this the easy way, Harry?” Malfoy whispered.

Harry just sat back, stunned. Malfoy had never sounded so small, so dejected. The harsh contrast from the expletives and anger to this, was enough to throw Harry off.

Even without the fact that Malfoy had never called him Harry. Never.

“What...Malfoy...What?” He stuttered, unable to comprehend what just happened. Malfoy’s wrists slipped from Harry’s grip as he brought his own hands up to run them through his hair in disbelief and confusion. How could Malfoy go from cruel and angry to...pitiful? He sat on Malfoy, unable to move any further as he processed what just happened.

Harry suddenly realised it was all a act, the realisation making him pull back more until he was only kneeling over Malfoy. Everything was a carefully planned act. Rilling him up. Running away. Insulting him.

He should have realised something was up when Malfoy didn’t flinch when threatened. He didn’t beg and whine like he had sixth year, nor threaten Harry with his fathers wrath like he had the years before. Malfoy stared down his wand and wanted to die, wanted Harry to kill him. But Harry hadn’t thought anything of it, because he didn’t know how else to respond to Malfoy.

He could no longer ignore Malfoy’s strange behaviour.

Why was Malfoy acting like this? Why was he trying to goad Harry into killing him? Why was he here? And why was he now laying under Harry, compliant, even now that Harry wasn’t putting any effort into holding him down?

Harry remembered himself. In less than twenty minutes he had to be dead or they were going to lose this war.

He climbed off Malfoy suddenly, yanking the older boy off the floor to stand. Malfoy went easily, didn’t fight or push back as Harry dragged him across the room by his clothes and shoved him into the chair at the table. Malfoy sat without complaint, hands placed on his lap as he looked at the floor. Harry had never touched Malfoy without some sort of backlash, and now he was just quiet and complacent even as Harry just manhandled him into a chair.

It scared Harry a little.

He didn’t show it. He picked up the other chair that had been knocked over by Malfoy when they first entered the hut, righting it in front of the other chair. He walked across the room to pick up his wand and his glasses and sat down in front of Malfoy on the chair. He put his glasses on, and smoothed back his hair. He wiped blood away from the scratches on his face, and levelled Malfoy with an even look.

He didn’t sheathe the wand, but held it in his hand. Not quite a threat, but a reminder.

“Malfoy. Tell me what you want. Now.” He stated. Not cruel and not kind.

Malfoy, for the first time in his life, sat silently. Now that he wasn’t laying on the floor, the differences in before and now were much clearer. Since Harry’s had known him, Malfoy always had perfect posture, sharp eyes and sharper mouth. His clothes and hair were always perfect, mouth set in a constant sneer.

Now his shoulders here slumped forward, hands clasped demurely in his lap. His hair was longer than Harry remembered, falling into his eyes in light waves. Harry hadn’t known that Draco’s hair wasn’t straight, for the the entire time he has known the blonde his hair was always gelled back. His dark suit was dirty, ripped and burned at the hems, and his shoes were dusty and scuffed. His eyes didn’t meet Harry’s, and that was probably the most shocking of all.

Malfoy always met people’s eyes. He never looked away, as though doing so would make him weak. Not once in his life had Malfoy refused to look him in the eyes when they’d been near each other.

Eye contact was another form of challenge which Malfoy had never backed down on, until now.

Harry couldn’t take much more of this. He didn’t recognise the person in front of him, and he didn’t know if he could take knowing why. Was Malfoy always like this behind the front of anger and pride he put on for the school and his father? Or did the war change him?

What happened to him?

“Look at me, Malfoy.” Harry said, because it was too strange otherwise. He needed a sense of normality.

He wished he hadn’t asked, because when Malfoy looked at him, he looked like a stranger. His eyes were dark and sad, deep soft pools of mercury with no fire or spite or any other emotion Harry recognised. His shoulders were curled forward, making himself appear smaller as his hands stayed firmly clasped in his lap. The bruise on his cheek was fully fleshed out, a dark smear against his pale skin. It was faintly red too, from where Harry slapped him. He felt a spike of guilt shoot through his chest. He swallowed heavily, attempting to ease the ache it left.

Harry abruptly noticed how thin Malfoy was. He’d felt it before, but seeing it was a different story. His shoulders were still fairly broad, but everything else looked too thin. His cheeks, his neck, his wrists, his thighs, his ankles. Everything was thinner than Harry remembered.

He looked like a scared child in a black suit, rather than a death eater.

“Do not look at me like that, Potter.” Malfoy’s voice was firm, cutting through Harry’s thoughts. But, it was still softer than he was used to. There was no anger, no emotion. Just a quiet reprimand with no fire behind it.

It was so empty and exhausted.

“Like what?” Harry asked, because he didn’t know what else to say. Malfoy was not following their usual script, one of anger and sharp comebacks thrown like barbs at each other.

He was just sitting there, like he didn’t have the energy to argue with him.

“Like you pity me.” Malfoy replied, looking him directly in the eye. His spine straightened just a little, and his hands slid down his thighs in a smoothing motion. “Let’s not pretend we are friends. We hate each other. However, I need you to do one thing for me.”

Harry folded his arms over his chest in response to Malfoy’s sharper tone, a part of him glad for the normality.

“Why should I care?” Harry asked, a little of his usual deflective tone already setting in. He knew how to do this.

Or at least, he thought he did. Because then Malfoy spoke, sudden and sharp.

“Because otherwise, you are going to lose this war.”

Harry stood up immediately, the anger coming back like a long lost friend. He got into Malfoy's space, towering over him. Malfoy recoiled like a snake ready to strike, body tense and eyes bright.

“How dare you pretend to care about us, Malfoy! I haven’t forgotten that you’re a traitor and a liar.” He hissed, spit flying as he remembered Malfoy’s plea’s to the death eater that morning. Malfoy leant forward in his chair to snap back, eyes bright with anger.

Malfoy was right. The only way they could communicate was through violence.

“I care, Potter!” Malfoy spat, suddenly, with more real emotion than he had been their entire encounter. “I care more than you know!”

Harry just scoffed, bitter and disgusted that he almost fell for Malfoy’s trap. Malfoy was first and foremost a manipulator. He didn’t know what Malfoy was trying to do here, but Harry wasn’t going to fall for the broken and demure act anymore.

“You know that won’t work with me.”

He expected the facade to drop, for Malfoy to draw back, stern and cold as Harry had always known him.

It didn’t.

His dismissal only seemed to make Malfoy more angry, more upset. His voice was thick with emotion when he cried out.

“I care, because if you lose my mother will die!” His voice was firm, harsh and angry.

Harry didn’t expect it, but he knew not to fall for it.

“What? What has your mother got anything to do with this?” Harry hissed back, still angry but a little stunned. Out of all the things he expected Malfoy to say, Narcissa Malfoy was not one of them.

Malfoy leant back, away from Harry. His anger seemed to simmer, and Harry watched him carefully for the strike he knew was coming.

“Because she’s about to help you win the war.” Malfoy hissed, voice a little quieter but nonetheless angry and upset.

Harry fell back in his chair, stunned. All thoughts of manipulation discarded from his mind.

If Voldemort had heard what Malfoy had just said, he’d be dead before he hit the ground. The dark wizard would never consider deception such as this. It would be too much like admitting defeat, to admit that there was a possibility of their side winning.

And Harry knew that, because he’d been in his head.

“My mother and I have defected from the Dark Lord. And unless you win, she will die for it.”

Possibly, it could have been his father. Lucuius Malfoy was a master manipulator, one of the reason Voldemort came to power so quickly in the ministry. Malfoy had always been his fathers son, always been the tool Lucius used to get to him or spy on him, but Harry discarded the idea. Lucius would never put Malfoy up to something like this. He was too prideful to make his son grovel to Harry, deception or otherwise.

Which meant Malfoy was here of his own violation. It could still be his own deception, but Harry wasn’t sure if he was capable.

Because if he was here for himself, for his own goals, the vulnerability he was showing was real.

Which meant he and his mother were planning something to win the war for the side they were not on.

Across from him, Malfoy folded his arms over his chest and gripped his own elbows tightly, like he was restraining himself. Harry sat back into his seat fully, and ran through every possibility in his head. How was Narcissa Malfoy going to help them win the war? Was she going to kill the snake? Why would she? She was a death eater, married to Voldemort’s closest, and had born a son for the cause. She was on the other side, through and through.

She had no reason to help them.

“You need to explain. Right. Now.” He hissed. He didn’t have time to play Malfoy’s games, but he wanted them to win so badly. He wanted a guarantee before he died, that they would win.

Even if it came from a Malfoy.

“She has been protecting me and hiding me for this very moment, Potter.” Malfoy whispered, but his eyes didn’t leave Harry’s.

Harry remembered suddenly that Malfoy was looking for something in the garden, standing hesitantly on the edge of the forest. Harry realised Malfoy been waiting for him. Relying on the fact that at the sight of him, Harry would make himself known.

He’d planned this, carefully. Harry realised Malfoy and his mother had risked much for him to be here.

“Why are you here, Malfoy? What do you need from me?” He asked. Malfoy bit his lip, but when he spoke it was with conviction.

“I need you to kill me, Potter.”

Harry let out a deep exhale. He looked at Malfoy, the conviction and the restraint. Malfoy was not here to trick or deceive. He needed Harry to kill him.

Malfoy was telling the truth. Harry was so quick to assume anything different, because it was easy. Fighting with Malfoy was easy. Hating him was easy.

Trusting him wasn’t.

He wanted to yell that he could never. That he wasn’t like Malfoy, he couldn’t just kill somebody because he didn’t like them. Now that the anger was gone, he could see that. He couldn’t kill Malfoy. He saved the damn git twice already today, from the fire and the death eater. He couldn’t just kill him in cold blood, when Malfoy didn't even have a wand.

Wait. Malfoy didn’t have a wand, because it was in Harry’s pocket. He came here, defenceless, on purpose. Why hadn’t Harry noticed that?

Harry did not like the picture that was playing out in front of him. He did not like that Malfoy had given his mother back her wand and came here intending to...die by Harry’s hand without the ability to fight back. He did not like that Malfoy had planned this, and that his mother was willing to see this through.

Harry knew how strong a mother’s love was. It was the reason he was still alive.

Why was Narcissa willing to give her son up for their cause?

He almost wanted to laugh. It just didn’t feel real that Draco Malfoy sat before him, defenceless, asking to be killed.

“Why must you die by my hand, Malfoy?” He asked, quietly, keeping his emotions and thoughts in check. None of this made sense. None of it.

Why must Malfoy die? Why must Harry kill him?

Malfoy could ask probably ask somebody on Harry’s side of the war to kill him, and they would, no questions asked. Quickly, simply. And Malfoy could have achieved his goal.

But it didn’t made sense.

Malfoy was a coward. He feared death and pain as much as the rest of them, evident in the room of requirement and the death eater on the stairs. He didn’t want to die, had no reason to earlier.

“Why have you been trying to fight death all day up until now?” Harry asked. “Why couldn’t you jump in front of one of the curses being thrown around if you need to die so bad?”

“I’ve already tried, Potter.”

Harry wanted to scoff, but it came out as a wet choke. He’d seen many good people die to those curses today, so they certainly did work.

Today had proven how easily a witch or wizard could die.

Harry suddenly remembered what Snape’s memories had shown him. What it had taken to destroy the ring.

.... _no_.

Harry’s hands shook, his grip on his wand white-knuckled. His heart roared in his ears, and Malfoy just looked at him.

“What are you, Malfoy?” He asked, but he didn’t want to know. He wanted to leave.

He was sick of being manipulated, sick of being forced. He felt like a puppet to fate. Because of course. Of course he couldn’t go peacefully to his own death, accepting and ready.

Fate had to take another thing from him before he could go.

“I think you already know.” Was all Malfoy said in response

Harry felt the despair rise up inside him, unbridled and unrestrained. It gathered in his throat, choking him and making his eyes sting fiercely.

“You can’t. You can’t be.” Harry hissed, stepping forward and grabbing Malfoy’s shoulders. Malfoy’s thin bones pressed into his hands. Malfoy just looked up at him, eyes strong and accepting. There was no fear there.

“I’m a Horcrux, Harry.”

Harry’s legs collapsed beneath him, hands sliding from Malfoy’s shoulders. He pressed his face against Malfoy’s knee, uncaring of how he looked or what Malfoy thought of him. Malfoy’s kneecap pressed into his forehead, and Harry tried desperately not to cry.

“I have to kill you, don’t I?” He asked quietly, voice trembling. He hadn’t believed Malfoy, didn’t actually think he’d have to kill the older wizard. He hadn’t thought there could be anything that could force his hand like this.

But there was.

“Yes.”

And just like everything else in Harry’s life, it was never going to be his choice. He had to die because he was a Horcrux, and now he’d have to kill Malfoy because he was one too.

Just like how Harry had to die for this war, Malfoy did too.

Harry had to kill a person to win this war. A living and breathing human being.

He’d considered what he would do, in those cold nights in the forrest, if Voldemort tried to kill him with a killing curse. Whether he would retaliate with one. Whether he could kill somebody, even if it was the dark wizard that had destroying the world.

He had promised himself that when it came down to it, he wouldn’t kill Voldemort. He’d weaken him, and leave him to rot in Azkaban for life, unable to come back once all the horcruxes were gone.

And here he was, knowing in his heart that he would have to murder Draco Malfoy before he left Hagrid’s hut.

He needed them to win this war, even if it was at the cost of the cold blooded murder of a wizard he had grown up with, in one way or another. He wondered where the Harry that refused to kill, refused to use dark magic, had gone. His own sacrifice had made him cruel and desperate, willing to do anything to achieve his goal.

He wondered what that made him.

“How? How did he do it?” He asked instead, because how could Malfoy be a Horcrux? Harry was a Horcrux by accident. Voldemort didn’t know he made Harry one.

Did he realise it was a possibility?

He naively thought that perhaps Malfoy was wrong. That perhaps this was another cruel joke Malfoy was playing just to be mean. He suddenly and painfully missed when they were children. When the worst thing they could do to each other was a stinging hex. Now, as an adult, he was openly contemplating the murder of Malfoy.

He guessed it was another thing that the war had taken and warped.

Harry leant back as Malfoy’s weight shifted in the chair. He looked up to see Malfoy’s bony hand reaching for his right sleeve, lifting it up his arm gently.His hand was trembling, but Harry ignored it.

The dark mark stood out against his white skin, the curled snake glinting cruelly against his inner forearm. Harry had never seen the mark so close.

It made him feel sick to the bottom of his stomach.

“It was when I got my mark. I didn’t realise until recently. I thought all the darkness and the visions of him were because of the mark. I was unconscious from the pain of getting the mark, and he’d brought in a Mudblood and killed them to do it.”

Malfoy let go of his sleeve and reached for his collar, unbuttoning it. After three buttons he stopped, and pulled the shirt aside to show his left collarbone.

There was a jagged scar, like a blunt rusted knife had been lashed across the skin down to the bone. Without thinking, Harry’s hand reached out to touch it. Malfoy’s skin was warm, and the scar was angry and raised under his fingers.

Much like the one on Harry’s own forehead.

He’d naively never thought Voldemort would never make another Horcrux, even as they destroyed the others. He never knew that the dark wizard could and would, given half the chance.

And it looked like he took that chance with Draco Malfoy.

He knew they would a least hesitate to destroy a Horcrux that was a person.

And that just made Harry angrier. Voldemort had made Malfoy into a weapon like he was nothing more than a locket or a cup. Treating a human being like an inanimate object to be used and weaponised without their consent.

Harry let go of Malfoy, standing and moving away before he did something he regretted. He turned away, pushing his hands under his glasses so he could rub his eyes, staving away the exhaustion and rage.

Voldemort had prepared that they would find the Horcruxes, and made one that nobody would expect. They’d hesitate to kill him, try and manipulate themselves around it if given half the chance. But when it came down to it, they eventually would. They would lose too much if they didn’t.

To most it would be the same as killing the snake. It was something that had to be done. One wizard for a million. The choice would be easy.

And Harry abruptly realised that this was probably what Voldermort wanted. If he was going to lose, he wanted them to destroy themselves to do it. To kill a young wizard for the sake of the war, to taint themselves with his blood in order to win.

Even when Voldemort was losing it felt like he was winning.

Harry wanted to throw up. He squatted down, balancing on the balls of his feet as he rested his elbows on his knees. He pressed his thumbs firmly against his temples, trying to not to lose it in front of Malfoy.

“You were sixteen, Malfoy. Why didn’t your parents stop him? Your father?” He gasped, trying desperately to breathe normally and think normally.

He had to calm down. This was war. It wasn’t fair, never fair. It wouldn’t have mattered if Malfoy was sixteen or thirty.

“He didn’t stop me from getting the mark, Harry.” Malfoy responded, tone suddenly dry, like he’d attempted for humorous and fell short. There were faint rustling sounds as he did back up his shirt. “My mother didn’t know what he did until it was over, but my Father was happy. He thought it was a honour to the Malfoy’s.”

Harry struggled to comprehend it. How Malfoy’s parents didn’t or couldn’t protect him. That’s what parents were for.

“Why...why you?” He asked. Why the youngest Malfoy? Surely there was people more loyal or more suitable. Why him?

He heard Malfoy shift uncomfortably in his chair behind Harry.

“Because he could control me.” Was all Malfoy said, voice quiet and drawn.

And it just made so much sense, now that Harry thought about it. The Malfoy’s were loyal, and Voldemort could keep the youngest Malfoy on a tight leash. Keep him close like he did the snake, a secret Horcrux that nobody would think of.

Their loyalty... or his fathers blind loyalty, made them pawns.

It seemed so bizarre. Harry had spent his first few years at Hogwarts terrified of Malfoy’s father. He’d always believed them to be a powerful and vindictive family. Harry wasn’t sure why he hadn’t seen it, maybe it was his own blind hate or suspicion. But the Malfoy’s were not powerful.

They were pawns to Voldemort. Pawns to power.

And now that he could see it, he was astounded that Lucius Malfoy hadn’t seen it himself. That he still threw loyalty at the man that had ruined his family and was complacent in the destruction of his son.

Malfoys father was as blind as he was cruel, it seemed.

Harry just hadn’t known that the familiar cruelty could be afforded to his own son.

Harry thought about all the terrible things Malfoy had done, in this war and out of it. Suddenly dark and light didn’t seem so clear. Was any of it voluntary? Was Malfoy always a pawn, to his father and now Voldemort? Was his cruelty his own, or the front he placed to protect himself from further scrutiny into his intentions? Was he simply a projection of his fathers desires? A tool used to further the Malfoy’s, to complete some sort of twisted pure-blood duty?

It didn’t excuse the horrible person he’d been to Harry and others; but instead of angry, it just made Harry sad.

The expectations must have been cloying. Harry had only known parents as protectors and overflowing with love. Ones that wanted only the best for him. Both his parents and the Wesley’s had proved that to him.

But what if everyone’s parents weren’t the same?

Malfoy was born into a life where he was expected to further his fathers aspirations. Forced to be the best in everything, to never compromise. To sit straight and dress proper and respect power. To be cunning and cruel. To obey.

Harry idly wondered if they'd ever been anything but children that were manipulated for adults gain.

“Why did you fight in this war, Malfoy? Why did you try to kill Dumbledore?” He choked out, because he had to know. Everything he’d thought he knew was uprighted onto his head like a crashing wave, and he was struggling to breach the surface.

“My mother. Voldemort threatened her life, if I failed to succeed.” Malfoy replied, voice firm and soft.

Malfoy was just trying to keep his mother safe, this entire time. Of course that didn’t make him any less of an arsehole, but he didn’t deserve to die for being an idiot kid raised by racists that never taught him any better.

And even then, after what she’d done to Malfoy, he still loved his mother enough to die for her.

“Your mother sent you here to die, Malfoy.” He said, because he was bitter, and in his opinion in she didn’t deserve Malfoy’s undying love. She didn’t protect him so why should he protect her?

“She did.” Was all Malfoy said, and Harry just shook his head in disbelief.

“Why are you doing this? Why is she?” He asked. How could a mother ask her son to die?

Malfoy but his lip, and looked away. He stared out the window into the rapidly brightening sky, worrying his top teeth over his bottom lip. Harry had never seen him do that before, showed emotion like that, and it shocked him into silence as Malfoy gathered his thoughts.

“This war is not about bloodlines, Potter.” Malfoy started, still looking outside. The light was gentle on his sharp side profile, “It never has been.”

“Voldemort preyed on how close minded the pure bloods were. Used their ignorance as his power, using Mudbloods and muggles as scrape-goats to incite anger and loyalty. There’s nothing that unites a force more than othering.”

Harry had to bite his lip at the blooded slur. He wanted to react, to remind Malfoy he had no right to use that word, but Malfoy was so far away and Harry was afraid to bring him back. Malfoy had obviously thought about this war a lot, and it seemed odd to be so pessimistic about it, since he was on the winning side of the war.

Even Harry could admit his side didn’t have the numbers Voldemort did. He was dying today to give them a fighting chance. Just him and the snake and...

Harry stopped himself there.

“This war is because Voldemort couldn’t admit that he was wrong. He’s evil and power greedy, and he will do anything to prove he is the most powerful wizard alive.”

Harry absorbed everything Malfoy said. It made sense. Voldemort was always about killing powerful wizards and witches. That’s why he killed Dumbledore. It’s why he called an armistice to kill Harry when many ‘mudbloods’ were still in the castle.

It’s never been about blood, only power.

“That doesn’t explain why your mother is giving you up like a animal for slaughter.” He asked, because he couldn’t get over it. Couldn’t grasp the family dynamic of the Malfoy’s.

“All the Malfoy’s have ever known was sacrifice.” Malfoy whispered, like he was worried about being overheard. His hands gripped his knees in a white knuckled grip, still trembling. His mark was on show, striking on his white skin.

Harry dared not breathe, because this was Malfoy with his walls down.

“We are a pretty lie, Potter. Always have been. We are bred for the use of powerful men. Our hunger for power and prestige makes us pawns. My father doesn’t like to admit it, but we are.”

Malfoy’s shoulders straightened, hands loosening on his knees to instead rest gently against his thighs. Harry looked up at the change, and Malfoy had turned to face him, his mouth set in a determined line and he stared Harry down.

“Mother knows what must be done.”

Harry pushed away from Malfoy, unable to process it. Every mother he had ever known would do everything for their children. His own mother had died for him as a baby.

“Malfoy...why is your family like this?” He asked. The Malfoy’s were beyond cruel to the point where they would consume their own for power. Where a mother would lead her son to his death so she could be safe.

“Don’t think ill of my mother. She is trying to do what it right.”

Harry couldn’t believe it. Refused to.

“By killing her son?”

“By killing her son.” Malfoy affirmed. “It is with love that she sent me here. She knows you will not be cruel.”

Harry bit his lip until it stung something fierce, focusing on his breathing to stop himself from screaming.

She sent him here because Harry would kill him gently.

“What did Voldemort do to your family, Malfoy?”

And suddenly Malfoy was just pouring his heart out

“I’ve always done what I was told. I was the only child of the Malfoy line, I had to be the heir. I grew up seeing my father as the be all and end all of the universe. He was better and stronger than anyone else. He was always right.”

“Voldemort treated him like a slave, held my mother hostage and kept me locked up like an insurance plan.”

And Harry realised how absurd that it was, that Malfoy was here with him and Voldemort didn’t know about it.

“How are you here? Wouldn’t he be protecting you?”

Malfoy scoffed.

“I played my part. Told him I wanted to redeem the Malfoy name by bringing you to him. I’m a Horcrux, so I could sense you. He was desperate for you to die, and he let me.”

“Sense me?”

“The ringing Harry, don’t you hear it?” Malfoy whispered.

Oh...he could.

In the back of his head, the constant ringing. He hadn’t realised, so wrapped up in the anger and the fear the last few days. He’d been too busy fighting off Voldemort in his head, worrying about his friends. He hadn’t heard it.

He could hear it now.

“Oh no....oh no....you really are a Horcrux.” He said, and that’s when the tears finally came.

He wasn’t sure what he was crying for. Maybe it was the injustice of it all. Maybe it was that now Harry had to sacrifice his morals and kill Malfoy in cold blood.

Maybe it’s that now he was realising what a horrible life Malfoy had been born into.

“I do not deserve your sympathy.” Malfoy snapped, suddenly standing and yanking Harry to his feet. Malfoy grabbed for his wand, and Harry’s hand tightened on it instinctually.

But Malfoy did not try to take it. He simply lifted his hand, and made Harry point the wand at his chest.

“We are running out of time, Potter. Be quick about it.”

He sounded mildly hurried, like a frazzled mother trying to get her children to stop pestering her for sweets at the check out at the shops. Annoying and wanting it to be over with.

Harry didn’t understand how he did it. How could Malfoy be so blasé about dying? Harry was terrified about the sacrifice he was about to make, but Malfoy was asking for it.

Harry cast a tempus.

“We still have ten minutes. Why are you so eager to die, Malfoy?” He said, still holding his wand up at Malfoy’s chest.

“I am tired of your sympathy. I know I am beyond that now. I’m tired of this war, Potter. I need this.”

“Need this? How could you possibly-”

“This is my atonement, Harry Potter. For what I’ve done. I’m not a good person.”

Harry dropped his wand, stunned, before he snarled and rounded on Malfoy.

“You’re an arsehole, Malfoy, but you were good when it mattered. You didn’t kill Dumbledore. You didn’t give me up to Bellatrix. You were cruel and dumb, but you understand your own failings and now you’re trying to fix them.” He reached for Malfoy, gripping his shoulder and ignoring the feeling of Malfoy’s bones under his skin. “I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a good person to me.”

Malfoy knocked his hand away, taking a step back so Harry couldn’t reach for him again.

“Don’t excuse what I’ve done to you and others, Potter.”

“You didn’t have a choice. I would have done the same if my family was threatened.” Harry tried to be gentle, comforting. Malfoy just shook his head, backing away another step.

“No you wouldn’t, Potter! You wouldn’t because you are good and kind and righteous and brave. You wouldn’t have given in like a coward. You would have found another way.”

And for some reason that just made Harry so mad.

“I am not a hero, and you are not a coward, Draco Malfoy.” He growled, and grabbed Malfoy by his clothes before he could run away again.

“You have come here voluntarily to die, Malfoy. You came here without a wand, ready for this. Those are not the markings of a coward.”

Malfoy gripped at his wrists, trying to pull himself free. Harry held strong, even as Malfoy’s nails raked down his hands. When he couldn’t get free, Malfoy started pushing at his chest, breathing heavily as his eyes were glazed over; wet but not crying.

“Stop pretending, Potter! Stop pretending that you know me or that you care. Just get it over with!The quicker we both die, the quicker this war ends.”

“That’s different.” Harry said, and tried to ignore the feeling of Malfoy’s heart beating wildly against his hands. He hid it well, but his heart didn’t lie. He was scared.

He guessed he and Malfoy were similar in that way. They covered fear with anger.

“It’s not, Potter!” Malfoy cried, giving up on pushing at his chest, hands falling limply to his sides. His head bowed against his chest, like he no longer had to energy to fight. “We both must die today, and while you get the easy way out, I had to come here grovelling for death.”

Harry frowned as Malfoy deflated.

“You do not grovel, Malfoy.”

Malfoy looked up at him without moving his head, grey eyes striking through his white blonde hair.

“I might if you don’t kill me now.” He hissed, a threat and a promise. “You need to do it, and you need to do it now.”

Suddenly Harry was fed up. He’d had enough of making these horrible decisions. Of choosing between one horrible option and another equally horrible one. If Malfoy didn’t die, none of the deaths today would be worth it. Voldemort would win this war. But in order for them to have any hope, Harry had to get his hands dirty with Draco Malfoy’s blood.

To some it would seem and easy choice, as another death eater would die for the good of the war. But Harry was done weighing up people’s lives like pawns.

“I refuse.” He said, and let Malfoy go, turning to walk away.

“Don’t be a git, Potter! Just get it over with!” He felt Malfoy grab at the back of his jumper. He whirled on the elder.

“Why me? Why you? Why must we play with each others lives like this? We are only eighteen!” He cried, pushing Malfoy away before turning his back again. “I’m so sick of this war!”

The hut echoed his words back to him in the sudden silence.

He stood there, facing away from Draco as he began to cry. He tried to keep quiet, but his quiet sobs were heavy in the stillness of the hut. The light was brighter in the sky, now steaming in through the small kitchen window. Harry closed his eyes, unable to admit he was running out of time.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t do this. Not anymore.

A soft weight gently landed on his shoulder. He hadn’t noticed Malfoy moving closer, but his hand was warm though the layers of clothes on Harry’s shoulder.

“This war will be over with us, Potter.” Malfoy whispered, his voice loud in the silence.

Harry opened his eyes, blinking away the tears that blurred his vision.

“Why me, Malfoy? Why do I have to kill you?” He replied, just as quiet, the anger was gone. Malfoy’s wand burned against the skin of his thigh.

“You are the only one strong enough.” Malfoy breathed, and let Harry go. Harry turned, facing Malfoy. Malfoy just stared at him, mouth a grim line and eyes wide with determination.

“That sounded like a compliment, Malfoy.” He replied, unable to muster the snicker that would normally come with it. How could he?

“That’s because it was.” Malfoy smirked at him, the first sign of the Malfoy that Harry knew. Or perhaps not. The smirk was cheeky, without any anger or hate. He’d never known Malfoy to do that.

Harry realised how much of a stranger Malfoy truely was.

Harry was suddenly stunned by him, about what he was losing. About how different their lives could have been if Malfoy wasn’t born to a power hungry father and Harry didn’t lose his parents. He wondered if they would have met in first year, if Harry wouldn’t have rejected his handshake.

“We could have been friends, in a different life.” He whispered, and Malfoy tilted his head back and laughed. It spilled out of his long throat, like it was punched from his chest. It was a choked, mirthless sound but a laugh nonetheless.

“Maybe, Potter.” He said, but the humour died as suddenly as it came. Malfoy looked at his muggle watch under his tattered sleeve.

He looked up at him, grey eyes determined. Harry met his gaze head on.

“It’s time, Harry.”

Harry couldn’t fight this any more. Couldn’t muster a reason or an emotion to fight with. He let Malfoy grab his wrist, and hold it straight at his chest. To make sure he wouldn’t miss. Malfoy held his wrist a second longer than necessary, long enough for Harry to notice. He let go then, fingers lingering on the softness of his jumper.

Harry didn’t have the mental capacity to think about what it meant.

Malloy stepped back, his back a few meters from the wall.He was preparing so he’d fall on the ground instead of into the wall when Harry cast the killing curse.

Harry was really doing this. He was really doing this. He was going to kill Malfoy and leave him here and nobody would know.

Nobody would care.

“What about....you know?” He asked, starting to panic and using anything he could as a distraction. He wondered what would happen to Malfoy’s body, or to his own.

It would be a mirthless stroke of fate if they both ended up in a mass grave together somewhere. What a fitting ending to their rocky relationship spanning almost a decade.

“I’ll stay here until somebody finds me, I guess? I hadn’t really thought it through?” Malfoy shrugged, but stood still otherwise. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

Harry wanted to protest, but he knew it was true. If he was lucky, his own body would be left alone and not paraded like a war prize. At least Malfoy’s body would be sheltered here in the hut away from searching eyes and the elements.

“Where would you liked to be buried?” Harry asked, because he couldn’t help himself.

“Why does it matter, Potter?” Malfoy sighed. “You won’t be around to dictate it anyway. Come on, stop delaying. You need to go.”

“I’m...I-“ Harry said, lump thick in his throat.

“It’ll be easy, Harry. You’ve been preparing to kill Voldemort, I’ll be good practise if you decide to get a shot in before he kills you.”

“I am not using you as target practise, Malfoy. Don’t negate your sacrifice like that.” He snapped, and Malfoy just smiled.

“It’s not like anyone will know what I did today, Harry. Only my mother will, but they probably won’t listen to her long enough to tell.”

And that hurt. Harry tried not to let it show, but it did. Nobody cared about Malfoy. Nobody would come looking for him.

Harry’s death was going to significant to the Wizarding world, everyone knew he was going to Voldemort now. His death was a prophecy, an expected sacrifice.

He and Malfoy were dying for the same thing, committing the same sacrifice, but nobody cared. Malfoy would die here, probably rot here, and nobody would care why.

“I’m sorry.” He said, because what else could he say? He couldn’t change their past.

“Don’t apologise to me, Harry.”

Harry swallowed.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t want to kill you.”

And for some bizarre reason that made Malfoy smile, it was a tiny thing, but it was there.

“You think I couldn’t tell by your stalling? It’s okay, I don’t blame you for any of it.”

Harry swallowed, nodding, most to avoid meeting Malfoy’s eyes.

“Well I’m sorry. Not just about this; but how I’ve treated you, what I’ve done to you.” He said, and me knew they were both thinking about the curse in the prefect bathroom, the way Harry left Malfoy bleeding out on the floor.

“We were both dumb kids, Harry. I don’t hold any of it against you.” Malfoy smiled again, gently and kindly. It only made Harry more upset, because Malfoy had never been kind to him. Another side of Malfoy that Harry would never know.

“I’m sorry too.” He said, and it wasn’t enough. He wanted to tell Malfoy he was sorry for the rejection, the judgment, the othering, the isolation, the hate... and everything else. Their history had been so bitter, both sides fighting for the sake of it.

They were never truely enemies, not in the ways that mattered. It seemed so cruel to realise that now. It was too late.

“It’s okay, Harry.” Malfoy said, and Harry realised he’d closed his eyes. He opened them again to Malfoy’s bright eyes staring into his. He stood there, hands at his sides and facing him straight on.

A slither of the rising sun from outside had cast itself through the gap in the door, running up the wall and across Malfoy’s face, catching one of his eyes.

It shone silver, the grey warmed by the sun until it was gleaming.

Malloy’s expression was open and his shoulders were relaxed, but there was an intensity in his eyes that couldn’t be missed. Harry had expected fear or scorn, but there was nothing but determination.

He was so ready and willing and it was almost too much to bare.

Harry lifted his wand again, and pointed it at Malfoy. His hand shook, but he steadied it. His grip was white-knuckled, and his muscles ached in protest from the days of fighting.

He clung to the pain to distract him, to steady him. He didn’t look away from Malfoy’s eyes, and ground his teeth together. He took a deep breath.

“I have one request.” Malfoy interrupted quietly, just as Harry was mustering the courage to do it.

“Anything.” He whispered, and he meant it. He would give everything short of his own life to Malfoy in that moment.

“Call me by my name.”

Harry realised then that the whole time, Malfoy had been trying to use his name, his real name. Harry had not even afforded him the same decency, hadn’t bothered to realise what Malfoy-Draco was trying to do. It just made him more upset.

He swallowed down every emotion, every ache and burn. He met Draco’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Draco. Thank you for your sacrifice.”

Draco smiled, and looked at him with those willing eyes.

Harry wiped the tears from his eyes under his glasses, and took a moment to watch Draco. He was so young, so beaten down by the world. He looked like a boy in a man’s clothes, the world on his shoulders and nobody protecting him from the cruelties of it all.

Harry could not do him the injustice of missing.

He held his wand straight and true, and took a deep steading breath. He felt the magic well up within him, and as he mustered the courage, he prayed that it would not hurt Draco. That it would be quick.

He had to mean it, had to want it. He didn’t, could never want this, but instead of thinking about Draco he thought about everyone that his sacrifice would save. Hermione. Ron. Ginny. Luna. Neville. George. Arthur. Molly. Charlie. Bill.

He’d had to do this for them. And so he closed his eyes, just so he wouldn’t see the willing sacrifice in Draco’s eyes. He didn’t think about Draco, about how much he wished it could be different. He thought about the smile on his friends faces when this war finally ended, how warm and beautiful the day would be without the war hanging over them.

How wonderful it would be to wake up to a world where they were no longer at war.

And he wanted it. He wanted it so desperately. He breathed, once, twice.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The magic left him, sharply and painful like it ripped part of his flesh away with it. He flinched away feebly at the horrible feeling, but it didn’t leave. He bent over trying to breathe through the stinging pain of casting a unforgivable, clutching where he felt his soul rip.

He didn’t even hear Draco’s body hit the ground.

And in the next second he’d realised what he’d done. He stopped moving, stopped breathing. He kept his eyes closed as the quietness settled in the room. Only his own breathing could be heard.

He had just killed Draco Malfoy.

He forced himself to open his eyes, to look at what he had done.

Draco was laying on the floor, his body splayed awkwardly. His entire body was still, the frantic breathing and heartbeat Harry had felt against his hand earlier could not be seen or heard. His chest didn’t rise, nor did his hands tremble.

His legs were curled slightly and his arms were at odd angles, one up near his head and the other at his side. The awkwardness of his body spoke volumes; Harry knew what that meant, had seen it too many times to count.

Draco had died before he even hit the ground.

Harry forced himself to take a step forward, to etch the sight into his memory. He deserved to die thinking about what he’d done to Draco. He’d done what he had to, for everyone else’s futures, but that didn’t mean he could ignore what he had to sacrifice for it to be so. He stepped forward, and tried desperately not to regret it.

Draco was staring at the ceiling, eyes empty pools of grey, and for a second all Harry could see was his own mother.

Snape’s memories had showed her in death. Her body splayed awkwardly on the ground where she threw herself in front of Harry; her bright red hair and her blank, green eyes. Draco’s eyes looked just like hers. His grey and her green all mixing into one.

He’d killed Draco just like how Voldemort had killed his mother.

He felt his knees buckle, landing next to Draco’s body. Only Harry’s frantic breathing could be heard, because Draco was so still and quiet. Draco looked like a doll, for there was no blood or any other evidence of death. He just looked like he’d stopped breathing, and that was all. His eyes were glassy and hollow, staring up at the ceiling without any emotion or life. His blond hair was splayed around his head, a tuft of it hanging in his unseeing eyes.

Harry impulsively leant forward with shaking hands to move the hair. His fingers brushed Draco’s forehead, and he flinched back violently. Draco’s skin was already cold. The killing curse destroyed so quickly and efficiently.

He had just killed somebody. He’d just murdered somebody.

Harry thought about the first day he learnt what the unforgivable curses were, in that horrible class with Crouch Jr. How he couldn’t fathom that anyone would use the warm gift of magic in such a cold and cruel way. He remembered watching the spider drop to splay awkwardly on the desk. Dead.

He looked at the scene in front of him now, and was stunned about how much Draco looked like the spider. His limbs were thin and limp, spread around him like he was a children’s toy that was carelessly thrown aside.

Harry had just killed Draco Malfoy with an unforgivable curse.

Harry pressed his hands to Draco’s chest, desperately trying to feel the warmth and quick beat of his heart that he had felt only moments ago. His clothes were still warm from the heat of his body, but his skin was firm and cold.

Harry bent over, pressing his forehead to the ground as his hands laid on Draco’s unmoving chest.

“I’m so sorry, Draco.” He cried, desperate and grating sobs. “You didn’t deserve this.”

Draco did not answer. Did not give any words of encouragement. He just laid there. Dead. Harry swallowed back the urge to vomit, feeling that ripped part of his soul decaying in his chest. He sobbed breathlessly, unable to care about anything else.

Something started beeping a moment later, and it stunned Harry into sitting up. He looked around with his wand held tightly, suddenly realising his vulnerable position mourning over a dead body. Only then did he realise it was only Draco’s watch on his limp wrist, beeping with an alarm. It made him feel horrible, because Draco had timed it; kept track of the hour, to make sure Harry killed him in time.

He noticed then the gentle and limp curl of Draco’s long fingers. They were curled naturally, softly, splayed upwards into the air.

He hadn’t even clenched his fists as he died. He had been so willing.

Draco was so ready for his death, but Harry couldn’t even muster the strength to walk to his, crying over the body of somebody he murdered in cold blood.

He had to. He had even more reason now. If he did not die now, in this forrest, Draco’s sacrifice would not have been worth it. None of this would have been worth it, and Draco would have simply been another teenager to die in this war.

He leant over Draco and turned off the alarm, tying desperately not to touch his cold skin. His fingers felt fat and useless as he felt around the small buttons on Draco’s frail wrist. He felt only a small second of relief when the beeping cut off. He leant back, and sat in the silence. He swallowed, closing his eyes and allowed himself another moment with Draco. He opened his eyes, wiped the tears from his eyes and moved to stand.

But his eyes caught the blank grey ones, staring lifelessly at the ceiling.

Harry steeled himself, and leant forward again. He placed two fingers on Draco’s cold eyelids, and pulled them shut over Draco’s eyes. They mercifully closed under his fingertips, and he sat back, moving to stand before he could hesitate.

He left the tiny hut without looking back.

Or at least he tried. Just as the door closed behind him, he cast one long look at Draco’s body.

He stared at brokenness of the world that it displayed, and he vowed not to forget. No matter what awaited him now, he would be strong, and he would not shy away from his fate.

Draco’s sacrifice would be worth it.

He’d die making sure it was.

* * *

Without the fear to keep it at bay, the guilt came in full force.

Because Harry had lived, and Draco had not.

“Harry.”

The last person he wanted to see. Draco’s mother.

“Mrs Malfoy?” He asked, turning to face her. She looked small, so frail and worn. Her clothes were as dirty as her sons, torn and scuffed around the edges. But her chin was held high, her poise still held strong. He looked down at her wrists, they were magically bound.

He already knew what their fall from grace looked like on Draco, but it still left a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth to see it on his mother.

Two Auror’s stood next to her, watching and waiting. Harry tried not to look at them.

“Thank you.” She said quietly, but it felt as though she’d screamed in his ears with how it felt like a wave hitting him in the side.

“Thank.....Mrs Malfoy...what-“ she cut him off.

“The forest is a dark place, Harry. A dark place where bad things happen to people close to us.”

Harry frowned, abruptly realising Narcissa was trying to say something to him. Something the aurors shouldn’t know. The forrest was a dark place? Yes, clearly. Harry had died in the forest.

“The forrest is a place here things are forgotten. Where things are left behind.”

Left behind? Draco

She wanted him to put Draco in the forest.

“That’s enough.” The auror to her right said, gruff. He lifted his wand, and began to lead her away by her wrists.

Harry felt a wave of remorse. Even now, she spoke in code, refused to reveal what Harry did to Draco. Harry didn’t deserve her protection from what he had done.

“Narcissa?” Harry called. The auror stopped.

He struggled with the words. Did he thank her? For allowing her son to die? For continuing to protect Harry?

“I’m sorry.” He said, instead, because it was the only thing he could do.

She just just looked at him with dark eyes, heavy shadow under her eyes. Harry abruptly realised that Narcissa had indeed loved Draco. Really loved him, like Harry knew his own mother had loved him.

The kind of love where you would die to save them.

He didn’t have to wonder how much it had hurt her to realise she couldn’t save her son. Harry knew how it felt.

It really shouldn’t be a shock to him, but considering how Draco had been raised, he hadn’t realised they were capable of it. Maybe Narcissa was as much as prisoner to the system as Draco had been. Trapped into a marriage for duty, birthing a son for duty.

Despite it all, she had still loved her son.

Her dead son that Harry had murdered to win, and nobody else knew. It was a horrific paradox they were in. Harry’s mother had died by Voldermort’s hand to save him, and he’d killed Narcissa’s son to save them from Voldemort.

He would feel angry at the injustice of it all, if he had anything left.

“There is no reason to apologise. You did what you must to win this war.”

She was yanked again, her body pulled. She went with it for a moment, before her body tensed up. She seemed to try to fight it, struggling to turn to face him as she was dragged away.

He looked over his shoulder, black and blond hair mussed over her face and eyes bright with grief and fear.

“He liked the stars.” She choked out, before she was grabbed and dragged down the hall, out of sight.

Harry watched her go, swallowing the exhaustion and fear down. She was already using past tense for her son.

He turned to his friends, to Hermione and Ron that just stood there watching the encounter.

“Mate.” Ron called, drawing his sluggish attention. “What was that?”

He had to decide right then what path he was going to take. Was he going to leave Draco there, and never tell anyone what happened; or was he going to honour Narcissa’s wishes?

He wanted to leave Hogwarts and never come back. He wanted to go to sleep, bury his head under the covers and not think or feel. He wanted to forget about Draco Malfoy, just as everyone else in the damn castle had done. But he couldn’t. He had to cling to the morals he had left.

And who was he to deny a mother the burial of her son?

But could he trust his friends with it? They knew of the horcruxes, understood what they were. Yes, he could trust them. But, could he tell them what he did? Could he tell him of the horrible crime he committed to win the war? How he went again his morals and killed a defenceless wizard?

It was less about trust and more about fear.

He was so scared of admitting it out loud. He hadn’t expected to live much longer than Draco, so it hadn’t seemed so infinite. Draco was dying and so was he, was how he rationalised it. They were both sacrifices.

But Harry lived, because he had many people protecting and loving him.

Draco didn’t.

He must he been fidgeting, or showing some sign of the inner turmoil because Hermione grabbed his shoulder and led him into the side hall, where there was only an auror down the other end inspecting a body.

“Harry, what’s going on?” She whispered, still gripping his shoulder. Ron stood behind him, waiting.

Harry let out a deep breath. He had to tell them. He couldn’t keep it a secret forever, it would kill him inside.

“We need to do something, now.” He whispered, and they immediately nodded, faces firm. They were used to doing things quickly, performing urgent tasks with no warning. The firmness of their faces stunned him a moment, because the war has changed them more than he realised.

It had changed them all.

Harry abruptly pushed away the lingering memory of Draco’s glassy eyes.

Some more than others.

He turned around, walking quickly down the hall. He passed the auror with a small nod, avoiding looking at the body. His friends followed closely as they kept away from the main halls, from many people.

They travelled through the castle, Harry taking the path that avoided Colin’s body until they reached the heavy door to the grounds.

Hermione and Ron didn’t say a word.

He stepped out into the warm sun, eyes adjusting to the bright sky and green grass. He was right, it was a beautiful day. And it just made him feel so much worse, because he could enjoy the feeling on the sun on his face and so many couldn’t. Draco couldn't.

He dug his nails into the palm of his hands, using the biting pain to keep him moving. To walk down the hill to where Hagrid’s hut sat innocently.

He stepped into the garden, walked past the gouges in the unattended soil where he and Draco had fought and scuffled earlier. He walked up to the door, just reaching for the handle when the pain stopped working, stopped distracting him. He froze, hand reaching out but no further.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t.

He hadn’t thought he would be back here. He never thought he’d have to do this.

“Harry?” Ron called, and his warm hand was pressed against his shoulder.

“I...” Harry didn’t know what to say. He turned around to face them, Hermione and Ron standing on the stairs behind him.

“I...I did something. Something bad,” he choked out. “Something really bad.”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione whispered, her hand coming up to wipe away the tears he hadn’t realised were running down his cheeks.

“I had to. I needed for you guys to live through the war. I needed the war to end.” He whispered, wiping away the influx of tears with his sleeve.

“We know, Harry. We know.” She said, but they didn’t. He gave up more than his own life today.

“You don’t...we.” He stopped. “We were wrong.”

Hermione stood back a little, unsure. Ron frowned deeply.

“Wrong about what, Harry?”

He swallowed.

“Voldemort made another Horcrux.” He said, and watched as the knowledge swept over them. Ron seemed stunned, his eyes widening and he looked at Hermione in disbelief. Hermione was watching him carefully, her eyes a little unfocused in they way they always where when she was thinking quickly.

They stood there for a moment, before her eyes sharpened.

“Where is Draco Malfoy?”

Sometimes Harry hated how smart she was.

She must have linked Narcissa’s behaviour with Harry’s revelation. He realised that she had assumed that Draco was still alive, and that Voldemort had a chance to come back. He turned around, and yanked open the door before he could stop himself. He stepped into the room without looking inside, standing aside and letting them in.

He heard Hermione gasp and Ron curse when they saw the body.

Harry looked without meaning to. Draco was where Harry left him, crumpled on the floor near the wall like a discarded doll.

A patch of sun had eased over his face, softening his sharp features and making his hair glow in the bright sunshine.

“Did you do it?” Hermione whispered. He nodded once without looking away from Draco. The action made his neck and jaw ache, like it couldn’t bare to move. Or perhaps that was the tears he was desperately trying to swallow down.

He felt Hermione reach for him, trying to hug him. But he stepped away, towards Draco. He couldn’t bare to be touched with any measure of love.

“I’m sorry, Harry.” She whispered, voice thick as though she was crying. Harry still couldn’t look at her. “I’m sorry you had to do it.”

Harry gritted his teeth. He couldn’t cry again.

“He came to me, without a wand and tried to get me to kill him. We fought, I refused. But, he won in the end. He played on how much I wanted you guys to live through it.”

He felt Ron’s hand grip onto his shoulder, strong and firm. Harry shoved back the tears firmly as Ron started rubbing his thumb over Harry’s shoulder blade comfortingly.

“I just never thought I’d live long enough to see him like this.”

Hermione kneeled down next to the body, delicate fingers reaching to press against Draco’s neck. He draw them away a moment later, and Harry knew she had found no pulse. Draco had been dead for hours.

“Nobody can know.” Hermione whispered, and Harry just nodded.

“We need to bury him.” Hermione said, standing to her feet. She beckoned Ron over, before coming and gently guiding Harry towards the body by his shoulders.

“Take his arms, Ron will take his feet.” She instructed, voice firm but gentle. When neither of them moved to touch Draco, she gritted her teeth.

“Come on. Aurors will be here soon, and they’ll ask questions.”

They still didn’t move, standing over Draco but not making any attempt to touch him. Harry couldn’t touch that cold skin again. Not again.

“Harry. Ron. They’ll burn him with the rest, and he doesn’t deserve that.”

Harry wanted to remind her of her history with the Malfoys, when Ron hissed.

“Let him burn.”

Harry flinched, but Hermione stepped over Draco’s arm and grabbed Ron by the shirt, yanking him down to face her eye to eye.

“He died for you, Ronald Weasley.” She snarled, and Ron merely started back at her, distastefully.

“So did my brother.” He replied, and Hermione closed her eyes momentarily.

“Fred will be buried with honour, as he deserves. We must do the same for Malfoy.”

That only seemed to make Ron angry, as he ripped Hermione hand from his shirt and gripped it tightly. Harry flinched, watching them carefully.

He couldn’t let them hurt each other, but he wasn’t sure he had the energy to stop them.

“Don’t pretend you liked him, Hermione.” Ron snarled, using his other hand to rip down the sleeve over Hermione’s arm, exposing the scar. “You remember what they did to you.”

Hermione’s slap echoed in the hut.

She yanked her arm away, covering the scar. Ron lifted a hand to his cheek.

“You have no idea, Ron.” Hermione hissed, voice thick with tears. “You have no idea how I feel. I will never forget what his aunt did to me, hell, what Malfoy himself did to me; but he died for us. He gave more than most of the wizarding world for our cause.”

“You need to swallow you pride and bury the boy we let die for us.”

She moved back over to Draco’s head, pointing.

“Take his feet, now.”

Ron kneeled down silently, and grasped Draco’s ankles

“You too Harry, come on.” Hermione prodded, and Harry kneeled next to Draco’s head, avoiding looking down at Draco’s face as he pushed his arms underneath Draco’s shoulders, wrapping under his arms and pressing against his chest.

He met Ron’s eyes, and on a count of three, they stood, picking up Draco’s body.

Ron stumbled slightly as they rose, unprepared for the dead weight of Draco’s legs. Harry didn’t falter, even if it felt like Draco’s dead weight was going to drag him down to hell.

Without speaking, Ron took and step backwards and Harry took one forwards, Hermione moving to open the heavy wooden door and soon they were stepping out into the wonderful sunshine.

Harry didn’t look back.

They moved in silence, only the sounds of their footsteps in the dirt and the distant sounds of birds accompanied them. They walked past the edge of the garden, where only hours earlier Harry and Draco had exchanged blows, the dirt still scuffed where where Harry had held Draco down in that fit of anger, hating Draco for being the last person he’d ever see before he died.

It did not escape Harry how dreadfully ironic it was that instead he was the last person Draco ever saw.

He had no more room for tears, chest dry and aching like he’d spent all day underwater, and had only just come up to breathe. His arms burned, their sharp complaints stabbing at his mind, making themselves known through the layers of exhaustion, grief and self hatred.

He had no energy, but he didn’t dare drop Draco. Ignored his arms complaints, even as they grew louder in his mind, throbbing constantly. He didn’t even let his muscles unlock, or ease for a moment.

He wondered if it was a sense of duty, self-hatred, or just pain old stubbornness. Likely a combination of the three.

“Harry.”

He blinked, realised he’d been staring down at Draco’s chest, at the place where his spell had no doubt hit the blonde. He wished there was a mark, a scorch, anything. Something to prove how he died, what he’d done.

That despite who he was, his last moments were brave and self-sacrificing. That despite all his evil, when his life ended he was good.

“Harry.”

Harry snapped his heard up. Hermione was looking at him, much closer than he remembered her being. She had even placed a hand on his shoulder, no doubt shaking him.

“What?”

Hermione merely pursed her lips, evidently holding back what he wanted to say.

“We’re here.”

Harry blinked, looking around. They were in a clearing, in the middle of the forest. He looked up, and the sun shone strongly through the edges of the trees. It wasn’t far from where he had died.

It would look wonderful at night, when the clouds parted and the stars shone through.

“He liked the _stars_ ”.

Narcissa wanted Draco buried where he could see the stars. This would have to do.

Harry hadn’t known Draco was interested in stars, or astronomy. Honestly hadn’t cared, thought his only hobbies were bullying other children and being a pure-blood puppet to his father.

He shook his head. He couldn’t afford to feel the anger, or hurt. The Draco that had bullied him was the same that saved his friends, and they were both dead. He couldn’t afford to devote any more emotion to this. He was on the edge of a breakdown already.

Draco was bad, but then he was good. Harry would bury him in honour of his mother’s wishes, and as thanks for his sacrifice. Then, he’d put it all behind him.

Harry looked down at the pale head of hair that was slumped heavily against his chest, lifeless.

He took a deep breath.

“Okay.” He said, and Ron nodded across from him, expression closed. Harry and Ron eased the body onto the ground, and Harry tried desperately to ignore how Draco’s body just slumped to the ground and stayed there, how his head just rolled back to hit the dirt limply. Any person would immediately shift their positioning to get more comfortable.

Draco just laid there, limp and hollow. It just really drove home that Draco was dead.

“Nobody will look for him.” Harry said, abruptly realising what they were doing, looking up at his friends where they stood around Draco. “Nobody will care.”

“No, they won’t.” Hermione agreed gently. “The kindest thing we can do is bury him where his mother wanted him.”

Harry wanted to snarl, to scream. Anger at Hermione for being kind when she hated Draco, anger at Ron was being so stoic, anger at Draco for everything he was, anger at the world for letting Harry kill him.

Instead he just stared down at Draco, and shoved it all down.

No anger. No grief. Bury Draco and let it go.

“We need to get started.” He spoke, and looked to see Hermione already summoning two shovels. “Nobody can suspect what we are doing.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hermione replied, and handed Ron a shovel.

Harry looked down at his own empty hands. When he looked up Hermione only smiled.

“We’ll rotate so we can take breaks, Harry. Sit down for a few minutes.”

He’d no doubt noticed how his hands wouldn’t stop shaking now that he wasn’t carrying Draco. Sometimes Hermione was so awfully compassionate.

Harry sat next to Draco’s body, careful not to touch him.

He couldn’t bare the cold skin anymore.

They started digging shovels into the dirt next to to the body, breaking the hard ground, digging through sticks and leaves to get down to the soft earth where they’d leave him.

A thought niggled at the back of his mind.

“I wish I had given him the stone. It might have saved him.”

Hermione stopped, pushing her shovel into the dirt and staring Harry down.

“Harry, stop. You can’t go over it again and again. You can’t change what happened.”

“But-“

“Draco Malfoy had to die, Harry.” Harry stopped, stunned, and even Ron looked at her in surprise. Her expression softened.

“I’m sorry, but it’s true. He was a Horcrux. We knew from the beginning that we had to destroy every single one.”

“Doesn’t mean he deserved it.”

Hermione frowned, her mouth doing the twisted thing that it did when she was mad.

“Did you Harry? Did any of us deserve what happened in this horrible war? No. We didn’t, but this is war. War takes and takes and we have learnt to accept it.”

“We aren’t at war anymore, Hermione. We won.” Ron gently interjected.

“I know...it’s just. It’s never going to be the same.”

Harry looked down to where we was staring at Draco, and was glad he couldn’t see Draco’s eyes

He didn’t want to look, but every time he tried to look away his eyes just found themselves back on Draco. On his pale skin, his dark suit, this thin wrists, his sharp nose. His hair looked so bright in the sun.

Harry reached out and touched it before he could stop himself. It was soft, and Harry couldn’t stop touching it.

He’d never sat with a body before. He’d seen plenty of them, but there was no time to mourn over them. They were a simple and devastating acknowledgement, before he moved onwards to fight the battle that he couldn’t escape from.

Now he had all the time in the world to stare at Draco Malfoy’ body. It wasn’t morbid curiosity, as much as he wished it was.

No, because it was the guilt.

He was so young, and now he would no longer age. His skin was clear of wrinkles, of sun spots and freckles beyond the faint dusting on his cheeks.

Harry had taken everything from him.

He felt it ache, in chest. The part of his soul that ripped when he used that horrible, unforgivable curse. He knew it would ache for the rest of his life.

Atonement for what he allowed himself to do to win.

Harry ran his fingers lightly through Draco’s wavy hair, perfectly soft and smooth under his fingers. Back and forth over his scalp, tufts of it catching between his fingers. He wondered if Draco had ever been touched like this. If he had ever known the kindness of a soft touch.

Harry remembered the harsh way Lucius held the back of Draco’s neck, that fateful day at the manor; the way Draco flinched when his father touched him, the way he avoided meeting his eyes.

He wondered if Draco had been scared his whole life.

Harry felt a lone tear slip from his eye.

Hermione and Ron kept digging across from him. Harry realised belatedly they could have commanded the shovels do it using their wands, but for some reason, they hadn’t.

They didn’t look at him or Draco, and Harry was grateful.

He cried silently, blinking away the tears as he continued to run a hand through a Draco’s hair, like the affection could somehow reach his soul and...soothe it.

He wished he’d been kinder to Draco in his last moments. None of that crap that happened in the previous years mattered. Harry forgave him.

Draco had paid the ultimate price for them. For their lives.

Harry tried to shut away the memory of the feeling of his fist against Draco’s skin. He knew if he lifted Draco’s jacket and shirt he’d find bruises there in the shape of his own hands. He’d been so unkind. He fell into Malfoy's trap, of making him angry enough to kill him. In a way Malfoy had been kinder than him, had tried to make it easier for him. Harry let his hate blind him, and he regretted it.

Because now not only were they burying a cursed body, but a bruised one too.

Harry had thought himself a righteous person, detested what Voldemort did to others. Voldemort had hurt Draco so much, the manipulation, the dark mark, the Horcrux: and yet, it was Harry’s markings of violence and Harry’s dark magic that hurt him the most.

He had hurt Draco more than Voldemort ever could.

“Harry.” Hermione called, gently. Like he was a wild animal that they couldn’t predict the reaction of.

He turned to her, hand never leaving Draco’s hair. She and Ron were standing at the edge of a deep hole, long enough and deep enough that Draco would never be found.

They’d dug it so quickly. Or perhaps Harry was just losing time.

“Okay.” Was all he said, because it was all he could manage. He took his hand out of Draco’s hair, gingerly and carefully. Harry couldn’t bare to hurt Draco any more, even if he couldn’t feel it.

He smoothed the hair back against Draco’s cold forehead, and pushed himself to his feet with a burst in energy he struggled to feel. He moved around Draco looking down into the hole. He looked between Draco, the hole and his two best friends. He nodded.

He climbed down into the hole, landing with a dull thump on the soft earth at the bottom. The edge of it came up just above his ears.

“Please pass him to me.” He asked, and his voice sounded foreign even to his own ears. Ron and Hermione only nodded, moving towards Draco’s body. Harry couldn’t see them pick up the body, but they quickly came into view; Ron holding Draco under the arms and Hermione holding him by his legs. They kneeled next to the grave, and Harry felt some dirt trickle down from their movement. For a moment Harry vaguely wondered in he would get buried down here with Draco.

Ron grunted a bit at the uncomfortable position and he leant over to pass Harry the body, but otherwise silence ruled as Harry steadily took Draco’s limp weight. Ron let go slowly as Harry got an arm under Draco’s back and the other under his thighs.

Harry tried not to flinch when Draco’s legs fell limply as Hermione let go, tried to ignore the smartly clothed heel that bounced off his knee.

He quickly placed Draco at the bottom of the grave, the soil moist and cold where it brushed his bare skin. It wasn’t nice, but at least it was soft. They had no coffin for Draco, only a lonely hole and a bed of dirt.

Harry supposed it didn’t matter, as he arranged Draco laying flat. The worms would get to him quick enough.

Draco’s hands laid awkwardly at his sides, and Harry struggled to decide where to lay them. On his chest? No. Then he’d look like a vampire.

“Harry, just rest them over each other.” He heard, looking up at Hermione and Ron, who were watching him panic. “Just on his sternum, like in the muggle movies.” Hermione continued, voice warm.

Harry did, folding one hand over the other.

He stood, unsure of what else to do. His legs were flat and his arms where on his stomach, head rested back on the soft soil. Harry’s hands fidgeted for a moment, restless and increasingly anxious. What else could do? Was there something else he should be doing? He didn’t know how to bury someone. The only experience he had was Dobby, and Dobby wasn’t a fully grown wizard.

There was nothing more he could do for Draco. Nothing. His hands stopped trembling, and he curled them into fists instead.

Swallow it down.

He turned, and Ron lent down, pulling him out of the grave by both hands until he could scramble up the side of the pit. He got to his feet, and looked down, seeing that dirt had fallen on Malfoy’s legs from Harry’s ungraceful clambering out of the grave.

They all just stood there for a moment, staring down the body.

Harry realised they were having a funeral for Draco.

He didn’t know what to say, if anything at all. What does one say at the funeral of somebody he had murdered to save others? At the funeral of a person that he was burying secretly in a forrest to never be found? At the funeral of a person whose murder they were covering up?

But then Ron spoke, so he didn’t have to.

“He was a git, but he was good when it mattered.”

Hermione nodded, rubbing her hand where Draco’s aunt scarred her.

“He was good when it mattered.”

Harry looked up at the sky. It really was the perfect day, barely any clouds and warm. The sun was so bright on his face warming his bruised skin and his aching bones; glossing over the pain like it wasn’t even there.

It felt like a sin to be alive.

“What are we?”

He didn’t looked at Hermione, but she was the one that answered.

“We are survivors.”

Harry turned away from the sky and bent down, pulling Draco’s wand gently out of his jeans. It felt loyal in his hand, and he knew it to be so. It had fought so valiantly for him against Voldemort, and he was thankful. But it didn’t belong to him, and it never would. 

He leant forward, and placed it between Draco’s folded hands, pressed against his chest.

Harry felt the small current of connection he felt with the wand fizzle out. He knew in that moment that even if he took it back, the wand would not respond to him anymore.

Harry remembered his first time in Ollivander’s, how crazy the man had seemed when talking about the wands making decisions and choosing the wizard. Harry had never quite believed that they were sentient, or could make choices.

He did now, because upon touching Draco’s cold hand, the wand stopped responding. It had realised its master’s death.

And it had died with its master.

Harry had never known a wand to die with its master, but it was clear that this one had known it would respond to another no longer. It had fought for Harry, but once it felt the residual magic of its deceased master...

It would take no other master, and so it chose to die with him.

“Every wizard deserves to be buried with their wand.”

Their lives had never been theirs. Draco was born to a death eater father and expected to follow, and Harry was painted a hero for surviving a double murder. Both dragged into a war when they were barely able to crawl. Draco wasn’t a villain and Harry wasn’t a hero. This was not a story book, nothing was that simple.

They were just kids trying to survive.

And there was no happy ending.

.

.

.

Harry didn’t feel guilty about ending the Malfoy’s, but he felt guilty about cutting Draco’s future short. The Malfoy’s would fade from the wizarding world with the death of the sole heir. Harry fancied that Draco would find it liberating after all those years of manipulation and expectation.

Harry realised Draco’s death would have long lasting impacts across their society, signalling the end of pureblood aristocracy and elitism.

The Malfoy’s were always the most outspoken pureblood elitists, from their mannerisms down to the icy blonde hair and grey eyed features they bred. After the negative connotation’s on pureblood following the war, the pure-bloods were sure to die out.

It would become a proverb, a story to tell small children. “Don’t be elitist or you’ll end up like the Malfoy’s.” Harry was content with the legacy it left, for there would be no other blood war. Harry was glad for that, at least.

In the quiet moments, when it was just him in the darkness of his own thoughts, he hoped Draco was too.

* * *

For years afterwards, gossip filled the Hogwarts halls; bounced off the walls and whispered in dormitories.

They said he’d disappeared into Muggle London, or ran away with a girl to France. The most popular theory was that he was living a life of luxury on a remote island in the Caribbean.

But nobody cared any further than that. It was a entertaining thing to talk about, something fun to speculate about to pass the time through the long hours in the library or study hall.

Only four people knew what happened to Draco Malfoy.

Because if anyone had cared enough to look, they’d find his body buried in the sprawling forests of Scotland, murdered at eighteen in a war by the wizard they praised for ending it.

Perhaps one day, they would realise what the war had cost after all.


End file.
